


A Habitual Quirk

by twelvepercentofaplan



Category: Sly Cooper (Video Games)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, This Is STUPID, raccoons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-13 04:12:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4507326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twelvepercentofaplan/pseuds/twelvepercentofaplan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, it started off as <em>one</em> quirk anyway...</p><p>See, Sly's known for being that gentleman thief, that latest in the line of thieves that come from the Cooper family lineage, that 'heartbreaker' to few and 'that blasted raccoon' to many.</p><p>But not many regard his species as a key factor. Because despite being a master thief with a cunning attitude, he's still a raccoon.</p><p>Series of drabbles around Sly and the strange habits/instincts that most raccoons deal with/are prone to. Inspired by divisionten's R&C story 'Civility'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Cooper Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact about me: I've been stuck in a rut creatively.
> 
> The struggle stems from mostly just not having any energy/lots of other stuff I'm not talkin' about on here. But between all that, I recently went out and managed to finally, after literally two years, snag a copy of Sly Cooper: Thieves in Time.
> 
> And holy hell, do I love it. So much, in fact, that I haven't finished the game yet and I'm already trying to write shit for it. Probably not a genius idea since I don't know the specifics of what happened in the first three games since Thieves in Time is the first Sly game I've played, but hey, what the hell, right?
> 
> This was actually a little spontaneous. The amazing divisionten's series of Ratchet and Clank shorts, titled 'Civility', recently updated and after reading the last entry, felt somewhat inspired to do something similar, but with a different series. I considered GotG since that's my most comfortable territory, but I've already written so much on Rocket's habits and what he considers a quirk and what not...
> 
> So Sly came along.
> 
> This was supposed to have six shorts, but when I tried to squeeze out 'Night Vision', I found myself exhausted. These all were written in a two hour span last night and then edited earlier today.
> 
> The last one, 'Trees' is inspired by the Twenty One Pilots song of the same name. 
> 
> Before you read this crap, I'd highly recommend divisionten's 'Civility' story. It's so good. Funny, and with the same concept that I'm simply 'borrowing'. Any content within the shorts being similar is coincidence. I have no intention of trying to 'steal' or 'copy' her idea. Simply inspired and wanting to take it in another direction.
> 
> In the event that I screwed something up with continuity, someone let me know. I plan on getting the other three games ASAP but until then, I'm going simply based off my Google searches and limited knowledge I've got so far.
> 
> However, I would say this is set after the ending of Thieves in Time. And yes, I know, there is a cliffhanger ending that I already had spoiled for me. Assume that Sly was brought back to the present time, okay?
> 
> Anyways, off we go.

_**Sense of Touch** _

The square shaped, inch deep dish of water is there.

Yes, of course it was there. It’s always there whenever food is around.

Most of the time when the three are just sitting in wait and silence, two thirds of them forget about its existence. But no matter what, without fail, whenever a specific character in their little squad (hint: the leader, the thief, the one with the bushy tail, the one who dresses in blue and who’s name rhymes with ‘shy pooper’) decides he wants to snack on whatever they have at the moment, the same dish will miraculously appear from thin air like it was pulled out of a magic hat. And it’s always filled with just enough water in it to not overflow when two careful, coordinated hands reach inside and begin the ritual.

It was a trait that Sly had presented rather casually to Bentley and Murray way back in the good old days of the orphanage where the three of them met. Bentley first noticed it one night as he sat across from Sly, Murray at his side, spouting nonsense about something that Bentley wasn’t fully listening to. Usually he’d chime in on Murray’s story but at the time, the turtle was fixated on the unusual thing his newfound raccoon companion kept doing with every little plump, green grape he grasped between two fingers.

He’d listen to Murray, nodding up and down and adding the occasional comment, all the while drowning the poor berry (botanically, grapes are berries since they sprout from a single flower, although they are generalized into the fruit category for their appearance and taste. Learning!) in the tiny dish of water.

Sly’s eyes focused intently on the grape between his fingers, wet palm and fingers rubbing all about the shiny, smooth surface as if to remove any grime from the tiny berry-fruit-thing. Another few moments of this and then, without hesitation, the raccoon popped it into his mouth like he hadn’t just inspected it for a hidden camera or poison at all.

Bentley never brought it up. He assumed this was something Sly had done back before his parents had been… uh, y’know, that, and didn’t want to belittle or offend his raccoon companion. And Sly seemingly never noticed all the times Bentley had watched him perform this ritual all the time, while the turtle just assumed that this was some sort of phase that Sly would soon grow out of at some point sooner or later.

But no. Here they are, sitting in the back of their fantastic getaway van in rather relative peace. Bentley’s coordinating their next heist. Easy stuff, really. A few laser grids to get past, but safes to unlock with complicated codes and knob twists. There’s not even a need for entering through the ceiling. The ventilation on the sides will suffice, if the layout of the establishment is as it seems to be.

Between the fast typing on the keyboard, the calculated mumbling under the turtle’s breath, there’s a garbled sounding question from Murray’s end.

“Bentley, don’t you want any of this?” the pink hippo was the question between a full mouth stuffed with the most amazing thing on the face of the planet. That’s Murray’s way of offering Bentley some of the pizza that he is capable of finishing all on his own and a chance to just relax for a moment. They’re not in any rush to complete their job this second, as Sly had said just mere moments ago. If they were, Sly wouldn’t be sitting idly by in the passenger seat with his feet kicked up and with - yep, you guessed it- grapes in his hand with that water dish sitting at his side, balancing almost as well as he does on the cup holder between the two front seats.

But Bentley refuses with a hand wave and a, “Nuh-uh,” not even bothering to look at Murray or give any other acknowledgement to the pizza or Murray.

“Sly?” Murray offers hopefully, a somewhat disturbed tone in his voice at the fact that pizza was being denied. Like, who in their right mind, right?

“I’m good, Murray,” Sly responds as he turns to look at Bentley with a keen eye before he tosses one of grapes in his hand softly at the turtle’s head. “Hey, big brains, take a breather. We’ve got all the time in the world. Can’t you just, y’know, chill for a sec?”

“I don’t want to ‘chill for a sec’,” Bentley snorts in an almost snobbish manner. “I’d like to get my work done before I kick back like both of you are.”

“Hey, don’t say it like that, Mister Bitter” Sly croons with a smile before he turns back around in his seat and strips his hands of the blue gloves he wears almost every second of the day. “It’s not our fault you decided to figure out my point of entry and map out the entire building right this second.”

Bentley looks to the front seat where Sly sits to respond with something that could be equally as sassy but instead gives an audible gasp. The raccoon’s ears perk up in surprise. “Could it be? Sly Cooper **_without_ ** gloves on?”

Sly laughs and retorts with a similarly dramatic gasp, “Could it be? Bentley with a sense of humor? And while he’s working his tiny little reptile tail off too? Nooo, **_impossible_**.” He takes up the water dish with one hand and then, you guessed it, begins the ritual of drowning his snack in the water dish and inspecting it with dilated pupils and a concentrated look on his face.

And Bentley, again, cocks his head in curiosity like he’s done every single time he’s seen Sly do this. What’s the point? The grapes are sanitary, and all the other food that Sly’s done this with isn’t dirty or of poor hygiene either. Sly once did it with bread. Like, why? It’s bread. No one wants to eat soggy bread.

“Take a picture, Bentley. It’ll last longer.”

Bentley blinks himself out of his trance at the sound of his name. “Wait, wuh?”

The raccoon snickers to himself, twists around again, and gives Bentley a, no pun intended, sly, humored glare. “Take a picture. It’ll last longer. I mean, if you would’ve the first time you started watching me from behind you wouldn’t do it so much.”

Bentley blinks as Sly turns around with a snide smile on his lips.

Well, of course Sly seemingly never noticed Bentley watching him closely every time he did this. But he always did.

It’s that Cooper thing of his, that intuition of his that Bentley and Murray know damn well exists but often forget about.

“Honestly, I’m not too sure what it is, Bentley,” Sly says earnestly, a surprising contrast to his somewhat cunning and deceitful comment made just moments ago. “Age old instinct maybe?” After an eternity of drowning the parcel of green deliciousness into water, Sly precariously places the the grape between his sharp canines and bites down hard before he shrugs and offers, “It’s almost like an old habit I’ve had since birth.”

“You’re not paranoid that your food is poisoned or something, are ya, Sly?”

Sly shakes his head back and forth. “Nothing like that, Murray. I just kind of… Yeah, I don’t know. It feels like a habit of-no, actually, it feels like I sort of have to do it. Does that make sense?”

Bentley looks between Murray and Sly, finally turning away from his work station and tapping a finger against his chin in thought. “Was it something your parents taught you to do? Like, wash your food beforehand or something?”

“Out of teaching me to use whatever agility I had to my advantage by climbing trees and talking about Tennessee’s many escapades because he was probably the most insane one out of all of my family lineage… Well, maybe Bob, too…” Sly recalls while beginning the ritual once more with another grape in hand, “But I would say washing my food was something that wasn’t taught. It was something that was just… well, done, really.”

Murray, who is still chomping on an entire pizza, enters the conversation again with an appalled phrase. “You had to learn how to climb stuff? I thought it was just a natural thing since you make it look so easy.”

The raccoon shrugs and almost wants to laugh at his friend’s surprise. “Kind of. I mean, everyone has to start somewhere. I didn’t come out of the womb and just start bouncing from building to building like I do now. Trees are where it all started." At the mentioning of the trees, Sly shifts a bit in his seat, his face falling slightly as his ear flicks.

"What was that, Sly?" Bentley asks in regard to Sly's ear flicking.

"Nothing," Sly says casually as if he hadn't had the look on his face of dread. "But, um, yeah. I learned by climbing trees and easy stuff like that, Murray. Good place to sleep if need be, too."

Bentley grunts. "Raccoons are known to just love trees, Murray. It's just in their nature." At that realization, the turtle suggests, “Maybe it is just an age old habit, the water? Have you ever done any research on your kind aside from historical background?”

“Well no. I never thought it mattered.”

“It could matter though, Sly,” Bentley says almost worriedly. “Aren’t there any weird diseases that are exclusive to raccoonsthat can get you killed? Wait, you wouldn’t know. You could have it right now and end up dead tomorrow! You-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” the raccoon interjects with his hands outward as if to calm Bentley’s testimony down. “That’s a real high conclusion you just jumped to. Surprised you got there without a trampoline, honestly.”

Murray laughs at that one.

Bentley wrinkles his green snout. “I’m curious is all, Sly.”

Sly nods and pops the freshly inspected grape into his mouth. “As intellects are.”

Is that a compliment? It’s a compliment. Bentley grins and twists back to his work space and begins typing away furiously, this time in another window of the screen not littered in scans of a building’s inner hallways and outer structure all tied up with a nice security mainframe outside. “See, I want to know more about the biological habits and instincts your kind is known for. Raccoons are obviously climbers and are pretty fast on their feet, but I wouldn’t know that from research. But the water dunking thing is weird, and I’ve never seen any other species do that unless they were stranded out in the wild without any-”

 ** _SLAM_**.

Bentley looks away from the computer and to the front seat where the slamming of the van’s door just came. As if on cue, Sly’s voice crackles over the speakers of Bentley’s com that he wears in his ear.

“I changed my mind, Bentley,” Sly says. “We’re in a rush tonight.”

“Or you just didn’t want to hear me “talking nerd”, as you call it.

“As intellects **_do_**.” Okay, now earlier seems like less of a compliment. “But how am I supposed to sit too long and listen to you, especially when I’ve got an absolutely beautiful gem waiting for me to grab inside? Science later, job now, yeah? And forget raccoon biology. Keep your tabs open and guide me through laser grids?”

Bentley decides it’ll have to suffice, for now. But during their latest job, the turtle does keep his tabs open on the background of a particular ‘R’ word...

* * *

 

_**Bathing** _

Not every job that these three geniuses take up ends with them in pristine, tip top condition. There can be a few bumps and bruises now and again, especially when it comes to making the getaway or during the actual thieving process. And usually it’s Sly who ends up with the worst injuries, even when they’re hardly anything to worry about.

But blood getting caked to one’s fur around a wound that sizzles and oozes the crimson liquid isn’t exactly comfortable or, more importantly, sanitary. So as soon as the van had arrived back “home”, Sly immediately retreated to his own personal quarters to clean the blood from that laser grid that has just barely caught the edge of his thigh, grazing the skin and singing away a bit of fur.

Bentley couldn’t help that he could only shut it down for only so long, and Sly doesn’t resent him. But damn, does it burn.

However, one member of the crew hadn’t noticed Sly’s injury. Murray hadn’t seen that Sly was injured since he was the driver of the getaway vehicle and was more focused on getting out of there as soon as he heard Bentley’s nasally voice yelling “Drive, Murray, drive!” And upon seeing Sly leave his satchel that contained their most recent prize (a priceless fossil of some kind, by the way) in the back of the van as he slipped away with a slight limp in his step, the pink hippo naively figured he should return it to its rightful owner as soon as possible.

So without knocking, Murray cracked open the door with the satchel in his hand, and begins, “Sly, you left your-”

“ _ **HEY**_!” a naked Sly Cooper cries out in a panicked yell with wild look in his eye that makes Murray, who stands in the doorway of the room Sly had claimed for himself, jump nearly a foot in the air.

There’s a brief pause where Murray just stares with his mouth agape at Sly as he… well, uh, Sly was kind of in the middle of cleaning himself in the only way he really knows how: with his tongue.

Of course both Murray and Bentley know it’s a natural occurrence in the world they live in. They’ve seen many other species clean themselves or even their kids with their tongue. But Sly, for some reason that has not been disclosed to anyone, is rather private about it, mostly on part that he doesn’t want anyone seeing him lap his own blood up with his tongue before Bentley fixes him up.

So you can only imagine the raccoon’s face when-

“ _ **MURRAY**_!”

Snap back to reality. Murray, panicked and taken off guard, yelps out, “Gah! Sly! I-uh-just wanted-uh-I’m just-”

A low, almost threatening growl escapes Sly’s throat. “Just gimme a second!” And so Murray does so, dropping the brown satchel on the ground of Sly’s quarters without any regard for the delicate contents within, closing the door, and apologizing again and again profusely as he backs away slowly.

Bentley looks up from his reading material and cocks an eyebrow. “Murray, you need to learn that knocking is a thing. Remember when you walked in on Carmelita when she was-”

“ ** _Yes_** ,” Murray interrupts with a downward sound in his tone as if he doesn’t want to be reminded of that ordeal. Her reaction to seeing Murray in the door unannounced was far more fiery than Sly’s had been.

Take that literally and figuratively, too. That gun of her’s is a real wrecker.

* * *

 

**_Omnivorous_ **

“You’re all clear, Sly. But this is a stereotype I never thought I’d see you embrace, even unwillingly.”

Sly opens the lid to the dumpster a crack and glances up and down the alleyway he is hiding out in. Yep, all clear. A moment later, Sly’s head and shoulders pop up from under the mounds of trash bags and newspapers, a banana peel on his shoulder and what he hopes isn’t an old wad of used tissues stuck to his hat. “Shut up, Bentley.”

Bentley, who sits in the back of the van across the road in the opposite alleyway from the one Sly hides in, cackles into the comms relay in Sly’s ear wildly. “Raccoons are omnivorous. While you’re in there, you might as well make yourself a four course meal of whatever you can find. I’ll bring your water to you, too.” And after a moment of thinking Sly just might do it to spite Bentley, the turtle adds in a slight panic, “But not chocolate! That kills! Well, erm, massive amounts of it can, actually...”

“I’m hiding from authorities in a dumpster and you want to make jokes about me eating out of the trash.” It isn’t a question.

“Yes, food washer, I do.”

“At least I’m a food washer and not a stalker, Mister Watch-Sly-Cooper’s-Every-Action.” In the war of sarcastic comments, try as he might, Bentley won’t ever come out on top with Sly.

But Bentley can still hold this entire incident over Sly’s head as an embarrassing reminder of that time he came back to the van with a strip of toilet paper on his left boot, tissues on his hat, and the worst stench he’s ever smelled in his entire life following him just like the way they cops started to chase the gang not long after they spotted the trademark van.

* * *

 

_**Color** _

“Sly, it’s the _**red** _ keypad on the panel. Enter 395248 on the keypad that is lighting up the brightest red I’ve ever seen in my life. That is how the safe will open up.”

“I’m pressing the red… uh, right? This one?” **_Beep. Beep. Beep._** “395-”

The turtle makes a frustrated sound that is a mix between a sigh and a frustrated growl over his communicator. “Sly, no, that’s not-why is this so hard for you?”

“That’s the red-wait, no, it’s not.”

“Can you, like, not see red or something?”

“First off, I thought you said “left” keypad. Your comms is still broken, by the way.”

The turtle on the opposite end retorts, “Sly, don’t avoid the question.”

“Secondly…”

“What?”

“No, I can’t see red as red. Don’t ask why, it’s another one of those things I-”

“That’s actually because raccoon’s eyes are adapted to see green light particularly well. It’s almost as if you’re color blind in a sense.”

“Would explain why looking at you is particularly hard to do.” Sly laughs at his own joke and Bentley just scoffs. “And if you knew that, why’d you make me say it?”

“Because I wanted to make you admit to something for once, you stubborn raccoon.”

And the score goes:

Bentley: Probably, like, 2 times he’s got one on Sly.

Sly, though?

Sly: 692. And if you count that green light joke, 693.

* * *

 

_**Trees** _

He sits at the base of the sturdy, oak wood branch, feet dangling idly, leaning the rest of his form up on the tree’s trunk as the cool air and silence engulf him in the bright moonlight. Sly’s breathing is steady, his form lazy and relaxed for once in comparison to the almost stoic and sneak disposition he usually possesses. Usually when it comes to agile moves and climbing up to high points, the raccoon is very clean and calculated in his ways.

But tonight isn’t for thievery. It’s all for himself.

He remembers the days before the orphanage like they were yesterday. He remembers his home and everything he’d had before his parents were taken from him. He remembers the times he’d run about the farm he’d lived on before they died. And in particular, there’s a memory of one of the times he’d sat in a tree just like he is tonight for hours on end just admiring the mood and the scene around him.

And he doesn’t get an overwhelming sadness when these memories come to the surface. He’s never cried over sad memories in his life. He doesn’t drag himself about with a mopey look on his face. He sees tragedy as a point to move on from, not something to pin yourself to.

There’s an inexplicable joy that bubbles up and feels almost like a warm glow inside his chest. And some nights, just like tonight, he realizes that he needs to attempt to replicate that feeling again.

And as he sits up in the tree, quick tongue and quicker hands still for once, his entire body relaxed, with the feel of the cool night air, the sight of the moon glowing brightly on the stars and on the sky, Sly lets the biggest grin possible cross his face as it begins to come on to him again.

Warmth. Safety. Innocence.

That’s what he remembers. He remembers joy in an innocent sort of sense that didn’t involve stealing or anything. He remembers the way that old home of his made him feel as if he’d been safe from any monster under the bed or in the outside world.

He remembers love.

Sly swallows, clears his throat, and sniffs.

He’s never cried over this sort of thing before. And no, he doesn’t cry that night either.

But things just felt a little bittersweet up in that tree that felt like home.

 

 


	2. Seasons Change, People Don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sly's a complete genius, especially when it comes to attempting to apologize to a certain fox for all the grief he's caused her the past few months.
> 
> And by a complete genius, I mean a complete idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The struggle was real with writing these. Instead of them coming out as a series of drabbles, it came out as one big, long "one-shot" sort of deal that still manages to incorporate the raccoon traits, but having a starting point and an ending. All of these weave together to form one big story is basically what I'm getting at.
> 
> The 'Lifespan' bit seems a little random to me, but I needed to make this longer somehow. And on my list, that one seemed the easiest to incorporate somehow.
> 
> Not much else to say besides it's my first time writing Carmelita and I'm doing my best. I know she's not perfect, but I'm getting there.

**Shiny Things**

“I cannot even believe I allowed myself to agree to coming out tonight with you, ringtail.”

If you read that in the voice of Carmelita Fox, an agent of INTERPOL who is in constant contact and sometimes pursuit with the Cooper Gang, congratulations! You’ve earned yourself the gratification that you know how to take in context and make an assumption of who is speaking without the need of a narrator’s verification. Pat yourself on the back and ignore this crap excuse for a joke, now, alright? Alright.

Now the fourth wall may be broken, but within the restaurant that Carmelita, dressed in a gown of deep purple with her long, black hair pulled up in a fantastic ponytail/braid combination, sits in is not. And across from her is the last person she expected to ever be going out with again.

And yes, we’re talking about Sly, dressed in similarly fancy attire himself and looking almost out of character. Seeing the raccoon without his trademark hat is even more rare than seeing the raccoon sitting still for more than five minutes. Hell, he’s even looking like he trimmed his fur and actually taken a proper shower for this date.

But this date hasn’t been much aside from Carmelita ranting and, well, Sly’s been sitting still for five minutes already. Two miracles in such little time.

“After all the crap you put us through, with Le Paradox and finding those canes and-and the amnesia, I still find myself sitting here. I could be out handling the Raquet and the underground black market situation, but I’m not. I’m sitting here with you like I don’t already know how this is about to go. And why? Because you insisted and that you had something important to say to me. And I think to myself, “Carmelita Fox, you know that ringtail is an absolute imbecile. He doesn’t mean a word of what he says.” But guess what? Here I am!” The fox guffaws loudly. “Dressing myself up, acting as if I really care for this stupid-” Pregnant pause as her gaze finally drifts to Sly who is in a thousand mile stare.

And at what? Before Carmelita can grit her teeth any harder and turn her pearly whites into actual dust, she glances between where Sly’s gaze is fixated and the raccoon himself. And what is he staring at?  
A glimmering, bright, jeweled chandelier fifteen feet away and twenty feet in the air. His pupils are dilated, almost in awe of the stupid decoration. Has he never seen something with jewels on it? Of course he has. But the sight of this grown raccoon, in his mid twenties, looking to this chandelier adorned in crystals and diamonds and shining brightly, is just... this is...

“This is **_ridiculous_**!”

Thank you, Carmelita.

“Sly, are you even listening to me?!”

When she finally speaks (more like yells) his name, the raccoon blinks and shakes his head about, finally returning to the planet Earth. “Uh, what was that? You had me at “Sly, I cannot believe this” and lost me at the end of that same sentence.” Sly grimaces slightly and his ears lower a bit when he sees Carmelita’s gaze intensify, her eyes squinting and her pupils becoming the size of needlepoints. “Er, paragraph? Yeah, I missed a **_lot_** on account of that chandelier.”

Steam heat literally shoots out of her ears. “I. Am. Leaving.” And with that, Sly watches helplessly with a pitiful feeling resting on his chest as the fox grabs her purse up and struts away.

“So much for apologizing and making it up to her.”

But it’s not like Carmelita didn’t have things to say to Sly either.

**Lifespan**

“You want to **_WHAT_**?!” is Bentley’s outcry of a response when Sly, fresh off his “date” with Carmelita, lets him know that he wants to steal from Raquet, the smelly, ugly, cheese-sniffing rat mobster who has been seriously cheating the system when it comes to getting weaponry in mass quantities lately. “You’re crazy, Sly!”

“Crazy doesn’t seem to be my surname, Ben-”

“No! No joking! He’s armed to the teeth, Sly!”

“So? Nothing a little bit of me and probably Murray couldn’t fix. And they won’t be armed to the teeth,” Sly adds with a grin.

Bentley squints from behind his glasses. “What did you do?”

“I may or may not have already stolen one of his men’s comms unit on the way back and called in that order of whatever grenade-rocket-bullet-launchers to be delayed. Course it’s only across town, but we’ll be safe than.”

“You know absolutely nothing about weaponry, Sly,” Bentley grimaces. “Still, it’s dangerous. Don’t want you to end up dead. Raccoon lifespans are about twenty years.”

“Uh, what?”

“That’s right.”

“Look, uh, Bentley? That would mean I should be dead by now, pal. You’ve got a brain. Probably wild ones, yes, but like me? Nah, I’m fine.”

“It says on the article I read that-”

“Wait, you’re reading articles about me now?” Sly raises an eyebrow. “Or about my species? Why?”

“Because, uh, research?”

“Whatever, shellhead. I don’t really care. Just know I’m sticking around for a good long while, even after this Raquet job, okay?”

Bentley shakes his head. “I don’t know, Sly. It’s-”

“Bentley, please, just listen.” Sly’s tone changes in the blink of Bentley’s two eyes (or his four eyes… Bad joke? Bad joke.) “Listen, it’s very important to me I get this job done, okay? I know that it’s risky business and such, but c’mon. We’ve been off the radar for a good while now and I’m itching for some action. Please?”

The turtle groans, huffs, and finally gives in. “Fine. But, wait, how’d you manage to cancel their shipment?”

Sly grins. “Glad you asked. Well, seems that Raquet and his entire squad are all from Italy based off of their accents. And it wasn’t all that hard for me to impersonate one with-”

“Sly, don’t do it.”

But, nonetheless, Sly does exactly what Bentley had requested he didn’t do. “-my Italian accent! Haha!” the raccoon finishes in what is the cheesiest, most terrible, but somehow believable Italian accent.

“Oh, my gosh, I can’t believe I work with you.”

**Tendency To Bite**

Sly and Murray, up against the odds, and, of course, only with these two could it go slightly awry.

They knew the nasty, rat-faced rodent gangster who called himself Raquet (stupid name, really. **_Hopefully_** you agree) had people. And by people, they knew these people weren’t going to greet them at the door with smiles and hands to be shaken. Well, they did greet the dynamic duo with smiles, but they crossed their snouts with insidious intentions. And their hands did extend, but in attempts to slug Sly across the face.

And there was a ton of ‘em, too. That was the surprising part.

Of course this was going to be a fight. Sly didn’t come for one, but hey, whatever has to go down for a job to be executed properly must go.

Murray’s wailing on ‘em, as expected, and most of these gray-ish colored morons either make an attempt to hit back harder or do the proper thing, which is run in the other direction.

And then when they run in the other direction, there’s a yellow hooked cane that hits not as hard as Murray’s massive brick of a fist does, but it gets the job done for the most part.

 ** _Swing. Crack._** That’s a skull.

 ** _Swing. Crack._** That’s the back of a skull.

 _ **Swing. Crack.**_ That’s a broken nose and probably a chipped tooth.

_**Swing-** _

Miss?

And when Sly tries to bring it back around to collide with the back of this toothy bastard, a bright pink hand grabs it as it swoops back and pulls it out of Sly’s grasp firmly, sending it skittering across the floor.

And then from behind, the raccoon feels one of these nasty, sweaty, garbage-smelling rats jump up and latch onto his head.

“Grab the cane! Hit ‘im wit’ th’ cane!”

Sly swings his head back and forth with a nasty snarl, but the bastard still holds on tight, fingernails digging into his skin beneath the gray fur to hold his place.

“Where is it?! Where’s the ca-!”

“Idiot! It’s over there!”

The raccoon with the gray mouse attached to his skull yells out, “Murray! A little hel-” But, obviously, he’s interrupted, and he wants to gag when he realizes that this bastards hand is pulling at the inside of his mouth. He’s losing his grip, which is good. But Sly wants him off now.

So he lets his raccoon canines bite down hard.

There’s the sound of the mouse-rat-whatever-the-hell-he-is screaming out in terror, the light taste of a few drops of blood in Sly’s mouth. “Biting?! That’s not fair!”

A second later, the rat bastard is sent flying across the room and into his bud who just finally manage to find Sly’s cane. Sly huffs a heavy breath of relief as he approaches the seemingly dead rodents. But of course they’re only unconscious, just like the other seemingly endless ranks of them that were greeted by a fist Murray’s.

“Know what else isn’t fair? Getting kicked out of an ugly Halloween costume contest when you’re not wearing one,” Sly begins as his kicks up the hook of his cane and grabs it with one fluid arm swipe, “but I think you’d know that all too well.”

“Sly, that’s just rude.”

“What? He’s ugly is all,” Sly retorts to Bentley through the comms with a grin. “I can’t help it.”

“You could’ve done him a favor and, I dunno, smacked him in the face. Maybe you could’ve made him look a little more like me?”

The raccoon snorts. “Okay, that’d only be a couple steps up and it wouldn’t be doing him any favors.”

“You’re lucky I like you a little bit,” Bentley grumbles. “Just go get that… what is it you’re getting?”

“Oh, we’re not getting any good ol’ jewelry or something, Bentley. We’re going in for the kill.”

“Sly? What’re you-”

The comms shuts off completely, disconnecting the turtle from his two partners in crime inside of the establishment, and it’s only Murray and Sly in this now.

And Bentley’s back at their hideout, confused as all hell. If Sly’s not going in for something to steal from him, is he…?

Oh, the idiot is going after that **_other_** wanted thing...

**Hiding In The Attic**

The strangest thing about this, for Carmelita at least, was that it was nothing more than what it appeared to be.

Two nights ago, all on her own, she’d come into the hideaway of the mouse gangster who she had been hired to follow and formally arrest as soon as possible. And when she entered Raquet’s “hideaway” unannounced, she was met with literally no barrage of men ready to attack her to protect their boss.

In fact, she was met with the sight of all of these idiots bruised, beaten, and drooling on top of each other because they can’t shut their snouts. One of them had mucus crusted to the end of his snout and she just wanted to shoot it off of his face. But she didn’t have time to even think of doing such a thing seriously, because something was… off.

When she entered the “office”, she found him there. Tied up to his rolling leather chair, tape over his mouth with a few cuts on his face. His desk is completely tipped over, stacks of unimportant papers scattered all over the floor.

And taped to his forehead? A note.

Carmelita lowers her weapon. This isn’t a trap. No one would put themselves in a hostage situation just to trap her like this. Well, if they did, that is completely unexpected and something that anyone could fall for.

But that’s not the surprise.

It’s the handwriting.

“Everything you want’s in the safe. Keypad code is 1987. Emails linked to your business are on the laptop computer that is placed carefully over in the corner.” Carmelita looks up from the paper and lo and behold, there it is. “Yes, it was on the desk, but things happened. Password is ‘cheeseissogood1123’. Stereotype embracing at its finest.”

Totally shocking, right?

“Also, it’d be real great if you could give me a call in the next few days. We can go somewhere without chandeliers.”

That’s the shocker for her.

* * *

 

Carmelita, obviously, had no intention of calling him whatsoever. And we all know who ‘him’ is. She was angry with him, upset with him, and just… sad for him. She’s conflicted is what she is.

It’s a Thursday and she just got off working a late night with INTERPOL, finishing up her report on Raquet and his clique’s lovely black market deal and handing it in. Good work as usual, but it was tiring. Slow days were ahead now that this entire ordeal was finished, but that was a good thing. Wasn’t it?  
Carmelita’s rarely had time to relax lately. Her search for Sly that she’d conducted all on her own had lasted up until Bentley had brought him back through some miracle (she has no idea how the turtle’d managed to do it), and right after that, this entire ordeal with Raquet began. She’s had absolutely no break, and she has no intention of counting that failure of a date with Sly as a time to relax and break away from the stresses of real life.

**_BOOM. CRASH._ **

_**Patter, patter, patter, patter...** _

And by the sound of something falling apart and crashing all over her attic, it seems like tonight’s going to be another restless one.

The fox’s attic is filled to the brim with seemingly random items. Boxes she never unpacked when she moved in, an old chest that’s filled with some items of sentimental value, and some other stuff she’d rather forget about. But right now, something else is up there, roaming around, probably tearing apart the insulation and finding a good place to give birth. Non-sapient creatures are so obnoxious.

“You blasted-” Carmelita doesn’t bother finishing her insult. She just pulls the ladder down, gun in hand, and climbs vigorously and looks around with eyes peering into the dark. She takes a few steps away from the ladder and listens. Not a sound, but she can feel something in here with her.

Carmelita carefully steps over a box of old photographs and unused rolls of film, murmuring, “Where are you? I’d rather not call an exterminator if I can-”

**_Pat, pat, pat, pat._ **

The fox stiffens slightly and raises her weapon upward, holding her breath.

Those weren’t the steps of an animal. Those were louder, a little more precise. Those were-

“Boo!”

She screams at the one-syllable word and twists around. And wow, does she want to punch Sly Cooper harder than ever right now.

“Miss me?”

“Hardly, you imbecile.”

“Yeah, you missed me,” Sly says, leaning up against his cane casually.

“Don’t get comfortable. Get out of my attic.”

Sly blinks. “Huh. I’m shocked you’re not so hot headed about this right now.”

Carmelita scowls and crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s because, A, I’m used to ridiculous stunts like these being pulled off by you, and, B, I have had a long week and I have no patience for this right now, Sly. I am tired, and I have no intention of dealing with you right now.”

“Okay, okay, but listen… Can we just talk for a minute? Please? It’s really important that we do.”

“Why? So you can make some sort of attempt to flirt with me and pass it off as a joke?”

“Carmelita, no. I’m trying to apologize to you.”

The fox rolls her eyes and scoffs.

“I’m dead serious. You were just doing your job and I’m a… uh, I’m an idiot for the amnesia stunt and for dragging you into all of this,” Sly admits sincerely. “I mean, I know that things the past couple months have been weird between us. I got back and didn’t even… I don’t know.” The raccoon looks her dead in the eye, gives a shrug and says, “I’m just sorry. Do you believe that?”

Is this real? Because if it is, Carmelita Fox has seen everything.

She relaxes slightly because she knows that Sly’s being completely straight with her. No jokes, no funny business, no stupidity. The ringtail’s actually apologizing, as hard as it is for him.

“I’ve given you hell for a good while now and I hate that. I’d rather us be good friends than have that awkward ‘only-partners-when-the-fate-of-the-world-depends-on-it’ complex we’ve got going.”

For some reason, he snickers at that, and in turn, she rolls her eyes and gives a playful scoff back.

“And I know that we had some… um, some things that were almost said before I gave that skunk a run for his money.” Carmelita goes to interrupt in her defense, but Sly raises a finger. “And I’m not going to hold you to things you almost said. Because before we even consider getting into that phase, we need to get back to being friends. Right?”

“When did you become such an adult, Sly Cooper?”  
“Um, when I turned eighteen? I think technically at that age…” He grins and she wants to punch him in his stupid face, and she swears she’ll do it one day because that grin of his is infectious. “Honestly, back in Egypt, in the sweltering heat of the moment and everything, I got to thinking about a lot of stuff. Not gonna lie, I thought I was going to end up dead there. And I knew that if I wanted anything, it was for me and you to be back on good terms.”

Carmelita blinks in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Sly huffs a sigh, finally feeling a weight fall off of his shoulders. “So, are we… okay now?”

“Of course, ringtail. But please, can I have one night to-”

“Of course. Don’t let me ruin that for you. You deserve it, that’s a definite.” The raccoon shuffles over toward the open attic window, pulling himself up and pulling himself out onto the shingles of the roof before turning around and resting his arms on the windowsill. “Carmelita?”

The fox approaches the window where the warm, outside air is pouring through in a light breeze, “Yes, Sly?”

“Glad we’re back to how it was before. And you’re welcome for Raquet’s ugly mug. Murray did all the hard work.”

The fox gives a smile in return. “I give Murray my thanks. And I couldn’t be happier either, Sly.”

She shuts the window a moment later, and Sly heads off into the night in search of a tree.

It’s just one of those nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In reference to what Sly is talking about, at the end of 'Thieves in Time' it seemed like Carmelita had something serious to say to Sly before he went off and kicked the skunk's smelly ass. Now I doubt it was something cliche like her making an outright proclamation like "SLY ILYSM OMG" but it seemed like his response of, "I know, me too" meant it was something along those lines.
> 
> I've been writing this since I posted the first chapter. And then I got a job and I'm on a weird schedule. Luckily I found the time/energy to do it tonight and the motivation as well.
> 
> Comments are hella. And suggestions for prompts are always great.
> 
> And I can say that in the future, we'll be seeing more raccoons than Sly. I mean, what's a Sly story without an appearance from Tennessee, right?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm real tentative about posting this since I've played halfway through this game and know very little when it comes to the other three games. But that was it.
> 
> In the event that this gets some sort of reception, I'll do a few more. I have a few notes about other possible drabbles but I don't want to do them if I've gotten a lot of stuff wrong in this first 'chapter.'
> 
> Also suggestions are great, even oddly specific things. Right now I've only got 'night vision', 'wires', and a couple others without any idea how to go about them.
> 
> Comments are hella great. And PLEASE PLEASE P L E A S E go check out divisionten's story. It's soooo great and every time I read the newest installment my day is instantly a hundred times better.


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